Downhill Fast
by FlutteringLights
Summary: Peter falls ill during a failing mission with Rocket.


Of course Peter figured out their plan had gone awry as soon as he came too. The headache that had already been building for the past half hour now pounded at his eyes, and he groaned.

"Quill, you okay?" Rocket called.

"Yeah, I'm good," he answered, standing despite a slight dizziness and making his way to the raccoon, who sat on the ground a few feet away. "What about you?"

"Screwed up my leg pretty badly. Definitely broken," he replied. Peter opened his backpack and motioned for Rocket to jump in. "Aw, _hell_ no. You are _not_ carrying me around in _that_. I'll need some help, but I can walk." Rocket was not just some dumb animal, some frilly accessory chihuahua, and he refused to be degraded as such.

"Rocket, please," Peter sighed, sounding… well, Peter didn't do _frustrated_ , per say. It wasn't his thing. He faced the biggest villain in the galaxy and challenged him to a dance-off, for God's sake. So not frustrated, not even exasperated, just… tired. Rocket noticed for the first time the way the man was squinting against the sun, face pinched in obvious discomfort. He looked exhausted. Rocket glared and huffed and cursed, but climbed into the backpack.

"We need to make shelter," Peter suggested.

"Yeah. Let's find water first, and set up camp there."

They walked for over an hour, Peter's pace slowing gradually as his body ached more and more. _Soreness from the fall,_ he thought, even as his head pounded and his eyes struggled to stay open and his throat felt dry and scratchy.

Rocket had almost fallen asleep to the rhythmic swaying of Peter's steps and the lull of his own exhaustion when suddenly he felt himself thrown from the backpack as Peter tripped, flying through the air and onto the ground, unforgiving against the jarring movements and sending a blinding wave of pain through his leg.

"Quill, what the hell?!"

Peter landed hard on his elbows, breathing raggedly and sweating profusely. Rocket could see him shivering. For many seconds he didn't move, coughing, as the air had been forced from his lungs in the fall.

"Sorry," he breathed, "tripped." Rocket opened his mouth to berate his partner, but stopped. His hand was pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to alleviate a surely-excruciating headache, fingers probing his eyeballs, and he was pale. The raccoon knew that it would be easy to push Peter farther, but it wouldn't do either of them any good.

"Let's just set camp up here for the night, eh?"

"What about finding water?"

"We'll find some in the morning. It's probably best not to go so far tonight, since Groot, Drax, and Gamora will be looking for us."

Peter had no objections to this plan.

"We should build a fire," Peter said, still shivering.

Rocket waited and Peter didn't move.

"I'll need firewood for that, genius."

"Right." He still didn't budge.

"Can't really get that myself, can I?" Rocket prodded, hoping Peter would get the message.

"On it. I'm up," Peter hesitated, but finally hauled himself to his feet.

That's when it happened. His world spun violently and one hand flew to head while the other reached out to grip something, anything, to steady himself, but there was nothing there, and he toppled hard to the ground once more, groaning.

"Son of a bitch, Quill, how hard did you hit your head?"

"Not feelin' so hot," he finally admitted.

"Damn it, why didn't you say you were hurt?"

"Not hurt. I think I'm getting sick."

"...Of course you are. Why wouldn't you be? Everything's gotta be so difficult with you, doesn't it?"

"I was fine until a few hours ago," Peter defended.

There was silence for a few minutes. "Well, this sucks, cause I can't move. Hate to say it, guy, but you're still gonna have to get firewood. And water can't wait until tomorrow if you're runnin' a fever, which I'm guessing you are based on the fact that you look like crap and the universe hates me. Which means you're gonna have to find a way of gettin' that, too."

"Tomorrow," Peter whined, rolling over. He desperately wanted to sleep.

"No," Rocket snapped, and when the human didn't move, he scooted closer and slapped his face, "no. Now. It's gonna to get too dark to see soon. Get up, Peter."

The man cringed away from the noise and buried his head in the crook of his arm, coughing miserably. Everything was sliding downhill fast. Just this afternoon they were in the Milano eating lunch, planning a heist, Peter's immune system doing its job and Rocket's leg in tact. Now, well… none of that.

"We're going back to the original plan. We find water and make camp."

Peter, of course, knew he was right, and got up, though not without protest.

"Move slow," Rocket reminded him, "I don't wanna have to deal with you wilting like some delicate flower again."

And just like that, they were up again, Rocket in the backpack, sweating in the heat that now radiated worryingly off his friend.

Peter frequently asked if they could stop, saying he felt like he might faint, but Rocket was tough; he pushed people. He said no. And every time, Peter groaned and continued on, willing consciousness and holding onto it by whatever wispy strands he could grasp.

But, of course, as the night went on, his fever sucked more and more energy, more and more _water_ , out of the man's system, and his vision began to fade into darkness.

"Rocket," he slurred, staggering to the left. Unbeknownst to Peter, to the left of them was the edge of a dropoff, one towards which he was leaning dangerously. However, it did not evade Rocket's awareness.

"Sit down, Quill," he ordered, but it was too late. Peter was falling. Rocket quickly climbed out of the backpack and onto the side of the cliff, ignoring the pain in his leg as best he could, and tried to pull Peter up by his collar.

But it didn't work. It didn't work and suddenly they were both falling, tumbling down the at-least-50-feet of dirt and tree branches and weeds and rocks and onto the hard, damp ground below.

Rocket cursed and surveyed himself, checking for new injuries and deciding that there were none more severe than lacerations and bruises.

"Quill!" he called, and was answered by a long fit of coughing. Peter wasn't moving, except for the heaving motions of his chest, and Rocket sat, trying to think of a plan and not succeeding until he noticed the mud that clung to his fur.

"Quill, you did it!"

"I did?" he rasped.

"You almost killed us in the process, but yeah, you did. Look, water!"

When Peter looked up, Rocket was almost shocked but not at all concerned by the dirty, bloody gashes on the man's face, the red blood striking against his pale face.

"Not much farther?" Peter asked, and he breathed a sigh of relief when Rocket nodded.

The water was cold. Even Rocket, with his normal body temperature, found it uncomfortable, but for Peter, who was still shivering with a seemingly-ever-rising fever, it was absolute torture. Peter needed his temperature lowered, so Rocket had jumped in, hoping that Peter would follow his lead, but the man simply stuck his arm in, yelped, and that was the end of that.

"Fine then, dummy, just drink it. But don't come cryin' to me when your brain fries."

"Brain fries?" Peter questioned, and Rocket rolled his eyes.

"We're just gonna sit here and wait for the others, okay? It shouldn't be much longer."

"Someone's looking for us?" Peter asked, looking panicked.

"Duh, you big moron, what did you think we were waiting for? Jesus, you need sleep. I'll wake you up when the ship gets here, deal?"

"The ship. Everything will be okay on the ship."

"Yeah, Quill, everything'll be fine once we get back on the ship."

"Yondu will take care of everything," he whispered, letting his eyes slip closed.

"What the hell are you talking about? Yondu?" But Peter was already sleeping. "Shit!" Rocket cursed, realizing that Peter needed to be cooled down, and fast. But there was no way that Rocket could pull him into the stream without risking drowning him, and Peter was as useless as ever.

To be continued! Thanks for reading!


End file.
